


Fantasy (Dream About Me)

by zenelly



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unrepentant Fluff, in which kurapika is a model and leorio is a designer, only VERY vaguely, pining of victorian proportions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-07 12:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12841290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: Written for the Hunter x Hunter Secret Santa 2017 event!“You’re a lot shorter than most models I meet,” is probably not the best way to introduce yourself to someone you’re bound to be working closely with in the future, but Leorio’s always been able to self-diagnose with a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease even before he dropped out of medical school to make clothes. And right now, he’s busy thinking about how much he’s going to need to tailor the bits and pieces he already has floating around his studio to fit someone who only almost comes up to his collarbones.





	Fantasy (Dream About Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this is written for [lady-potato-ninja](http://lady-potato-ninja.tumblr.com)'s prompt "fashionable Kurapika, or perhaps a fashion au for a fanfic?" for the Hunter x Hunter Secret Santa event for 2017! I hope you like it! ♥
> 
> Title is from "Emotion" by Carly Rae Jepsen

“You’re a lot shorter than most models I meet,” is probably not the best way to introduce yourself to someone you’re bound to be working closely with in the future, but Leorio’s always been able to self-diagnose with a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease even before he dropped out of medical school to make clothes. And right now, he’s busy thinking about how _much_ he’s going to need to tailor the bits and pieces he already has floating around his studio to fit someone who only _almost_ comes up to his collarbones.

Look, his life has been colorful from start to finish. Med school isn’t going anywhere anytime fast, and his ability to make his own clothing has saved him a lot of money one way or another ever since his grandmother taught him.

This is neither here nor there. What is here and now is a small, increasingly angry blond staring up at him like he’s trying to decide if vivisecting Leorio _now_ is the best course of action or if he needs to save it for later.

“You’re a lot ruder than most designers dare to be,” his model grinds out. “Can we get this done and over with? I have a busy schedule.”

Leorio’s spine snaps straight, his chin lifting belligerently. "And I have you for the next three hours for a fitting. So take your fucking coat off and stay a while, will you? You can leave when I'm through with you."

Also not the best thing to yell at your model. Especially when your model draws himself up to his very inconsiderable height and yells back, meaning that the remainder of your three hours together are fraught with tension and practice at dodging various hurled objects. The time passes quickly, at least, as Leorio restrains himself from strangling Kurapika with his measuring tape.

Only later, after the whirlwind that is Kurapika had left, does Leorio let himself think about how fucking _pretty_ Kurapika is, and he smooths a hand down the front of the coat he’s pinning in place.

A flash of color, among the black.

Perhaps something red.

 

* * *

 

This sets the tenor for most of their conversations that come after. Kurapika is biting and exact, and Leorio can’t stop himself from wanting to needle and prod every way except physically. They bicker and snap while Leorio carefully sews Kurapika into and out of clothes. Kurapika manages to keep himself remarkably still; even when Leorio has him flashing with anger, he doesn’t do more than breathe a little deeper than usual while Leorio carefully pins and adjusts the fall of fabric over Kurapika’s slender frame. The bickering becomes routine, almost fond. Leorio loves it when people let themselves get bitchy at him, after all, and Kurapika is in no shortage of that, at least.

“This is nice,” Kurapika says one day, abrupt.

Leorio’s hands flutter, and he carefully stills them, acutely aware of the pin hovering too close to Kurapika’s skin. “Pardon?”

“This. The clothes. I like them. They’re-“ and he makes a frustrated noise, the air from his mouth puffing up his bangs in a curiously put-out motion that Leorio tries and fails to not find charming. “They’re comfortable. And you’ve actually put thought into wearing them.”

“Well duh,” Leorio says, his mouth getting ahead of his brain. He’s achingly aware that his hand is on Kurapika’s thigh, curved around the swell of muscle there, and he ducks his head. It probably does nothing to hide the growing blush spreading over his ears and neck. Fuck. “Thanks,” he says then, awkward. Pleased. “I’m glad you like them.”

There’s a touch.

A here and miss it kind of touch, glancing against the short, soft hairs at the base of Leorio’s skull, where his neck meets his head. Leorio looks up but-

By the time he does, it seems like Kurapika has not moved. His gaze is fixed steadily on the wall. Only the spot on the back of Leorio’s neck tells a different story, warm and tingling with promise.

(Leorio notices, helplessly, that the upturns of his cheekbones are dusted with pink and freckles, both offsetting the other.)

Kurapika’s eyes flick down to him once, a slice of gray, before he resumes staring at the wall. Leorio bends his head and gets back to work, and his hands are steady when he presses the pin through the weave of the fabric.

 

* * *

 

"Leorio, I'm here for another fitting," Kurapika calls, shaking out his umbrella in the entryway.

Fuck, what the hell is he doing here already? He's not supposed to be here until- Leorio looks at the clock, and stares for a second as his eyes relearn how to focus on things not five inches from his face. Fuck. Fuck, yeah, it's two, Kurapika is absolutely supposed to be here. Leorio, sticking a pin into the mannequin, swears quietly. Damn it, he's barely even dressed. Leorio is only in a tank top and loose-fitting sweats; a long cry from his suits, and he _hates_ meeting clients when he's dressed down like this.

But there's nothing else for it. He can't exactly tell Kurapika to go away. With a groan and a passing prayer for his long-gone dignity, Leorio yells back, "I'm in the studio, just come on up. Hope you don't mind waiting a bit."

"Unprepared? Leorio, how unlike you," Kurapika says, and he sounds almost fond as he pads upstairs, bare feet making soft sounds against the wood of Leorio's floor.

“Just, hold on a minute,” Leorio says, a pin in his mouth. Several pins in his mouth, actually. Leorio shuffles them around with his tongue, a nervous habit from his smoking days that he hasn’t managed to give up yet.

“You...” Kurapika's voice is choked, and Leorio chances a glance at him. He's staring, quite blatantly, at Leorio, or perhaps at Leorio's work? “You're very... I've never seen you. In a shirt like that, that is.”

Ah. Leorio shrugs, faux-casual. “Yeah, I'm sorry, I lost track of time and this-” and he gestures emphatically at the garment hanging on the dressform, “is being a difficult piece of shit.”

Kurapika hums. He does not look up from Leorio's shoulders.

Leorio's attention returns to the dressform, the back of his neck hot. Fuck, he has to get this done before he can even think about putting it on Kurapika's body. He should have phrased that differently. His mind sidetracks for a few moments contemplating the curve of Kurapika's hip and how he wants this to fall over it. How his hand would- Back on track. He waves over his shoulder. “Sit down over there and I’ll get these fixed up.”

A pause.

Then, "Alright."

When he surfaces an hour later, his mind clearing enough for him to step away from the mannequin, he finds Kurapika curled up on his studio’s couch. Kurapika is sleeping, and like this, Leorio can see the purple sweeps under his eyes, the way he seems thin and worn down as he lays with his knees tucked against his chest. Letting out a long, quiet sigh, his heart clenching in ways he doesn’t want to think about right now, Leorio pushes himself upright. He finds a soft blanket from his bed, plush and warm, and drapes it over Kurapika’s body.

"You work too hard," he mutters. "Here I thought models were supposed to take it easy. "

There. What does it matter that Kurapika is sleeping, anyway? It’s fine. Leorio has plenty to do still.

Kurapika can sleep here for as long as he needs.

(And if Leorio, wanting and aching with it, let's his hand linger a touch too long in Kurapika's hair, well. That's something he only needs to admit to himself.)

 

* * *

 

“You should dress down more frequently,” Kurapika says mildly, apropos of nothing a few days later. “It's a good look on you.”

The noise Leorio makes is strangled and probably best forgotten.

The laugh it startles out of Kurapika can stay.

 

* * *

 

When the pictures come back, Kurapika is a vision in startling black and white fabric, so stark against his skin and hair that the flecks of red, worked into the fabric in cutaways, seem intimate, especially paired with the drop of glittering carmine against his neck. And it seems almost strange to see him in the blue and gold that Leorio has also made for him, more formless than the suits, but accentuating Kurapika’s bronzed glory for all to see. A study in implication rather than outright statement.

Kurapika comes back to drop off the clothes after the photoshoot.

(It's odd, because Leorio is almost positive that's a job assistants do, and that Kurapika shouldn't have ever had those clothes in his possession, but also he feels fierce and oddly possessive and can't talk really.

Those in glass houses, after all.)

“You should keep those, Leorio says without any input whatsoever from his brain. Good job. Not even a hello, or how are you. Hi, Kurapika, it's been a few days without me getting to see your admittedly gorgeous face and perfectly balanced cheekbones, how _have_ you been? Kurapika might have been onto something when he called Leorio uncivilized after all.

“You made them,” Kurapika answers, but his fingers tighten in the fabric.

He shrugs. Too casual. “I made them for you.”

“They’re part of your line.”

“Kurapika,” Leorio says, gentle. “Learn to accept a gift when it’s given, alright?” And then, because he can't resist, “Besides, they're hardly large enough for anyone other than you to-”

He deserves the pants thrown at his face for that. He laughs, untangles himself from his fabric prison to find Kurapika right in his space. And Kurapika wraps his hand around the back of Leorio's neck, pulling him down. He presses a kiss, soft and insistent, to Leorio's lips.

“Um. Not that I object to that or anything, mind you, but what was that for?” Leorio babbles.

"Learn to accept a gift when it's given, Leorio," he says archly, hot against his mouth.

"You little shit." Leorio kisses him back, laughing and smiling too much for the venture to go particularly well, and really, all in all, he supposes that sticking his foot in his mouth doesn't end up terribly for him every time. And once is just enough to be a very, very good pattern-breaker.

 

 


End file.
